A new perspective on a journey across North East, East and Southern Africa
DEPARTING FOR ADDIS ABABA
On the 19th February I'll be flying to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, with little more than a day rucksack, a cotton sleeping bag liner, some rolled up shirts, factor 50 suncream and a phone for a video camera…not to forget a plane ticket for my flight out of Cape Town in South Africa in June, some 4000 or so miles south of Addis. What are my chosen modes of transport? Anything excluding planes…public buses, trains, tuktuks, (on the back of motorbikes after a night out on the town), bicycles, mules, donkeys…regardless of the quality of the road surface or the journey distance What is the purpose of this trip? Why haven’t I decided to travel to New Zealand or Australia to soak up the winter sun, to surf, to party along backpackers trails or to climb mountains?
I have no concise answer to these questions, but let it be enough for now to say that this vast, diverse and challenging continent offers an experience that no other country or continent can. A continent which never fails to challenge an individual’s perceptions of culture, tradition, hospitality, wealth, inequality, poverty, beurocracy, leadership and development in every waking moment.
In short, don’t follow this blog for envy-invoking photographs of Elephants in the Serengeti, African school children learning English or sunsets on pristine Indian Ocean beaches (well…perhaps just a few sunset pics).
Follow this blog for a window on a world in which striking differences- and unexpected parallels- to life in Europe and the West, shape the lives of modern Africans on a daily basis. Follow this blog to hear inspiring yet ordinary tales of individuals who have in one way or another crafted their livelihoods from limited funds and resources in stifling urban jungles, remote and traditional village communities, beautiful national parks and coastal tourist destinations.
Over the upcoming months I’ll do my best to give you an original and suitably ordinary take on a very extraordinary part of the world. Watch this space.
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| Packing Light. |
TOUCH DOWN Feb,20th
After arriving in to Addis Ababa Bole Airport at silly o'clock in the morning, and having a lazer thermometer thrust in my face (the innovative ebola screening procedure carried out next to a sign reading ‘Ethiopia is officially ebola free’), I patiently queue up behind 50 or so excitable young and prosperous, high heel-clad arab ladies who’ve taken the last flight from Saudi Arabia to Addis at the end of a fruitful shopping trip in Jeddah.
I’m ushered to the front of the queue after 5 minutes by an airport official and my visa is immediately stamped (despite the mispelling of my name as JUMIE RUDMAN) and i wait it out in the arrivals building until sunrise at 7am. I get chatting to some rather idle customs staff- recent university graduates- who’ve found the goods declaring desk a good a place as any to do some tricep dips, and whose smartphones I rely on for communication with my first point of contact- the exceptionally hospitable Liyu- who has worked for Volunteer Services Overseas (VSO) in Addis and Hawassa for many years.
LIFT TO TOWN.
I stand in the airport car park on a beautifully mild Friday morning, attempting to look awake and purposeful so as to avoid opportunistic general plonkers whose company I’m apparently obliged to be in.
I spend some time borrowing phones from various car park security and taxi drivers in order to get in touch with my ride in to the city. Before long a rather beat up blue and white taxi pulls in to the compound, and I see the friendly, if a little warn face of a man called Million, a taxi driver who ferries VSO volunteers all over the city on a regular basis. He whisks me along the Bole road- a smooth highway lined by billboards advertising samsung smart phones, huge apartment blocks and high rise offices and streets brimming with smart Ethiopian business men and women making their way to the office. We glide past an intersection of East Africa’s first and brand new, Chinese bank funded electric light railway and on to the central Italian influenced Piazza square
At piazza I’m met by the energetic, bubbly Liyu who receives her dazed and jet lagged guest with a beaming and gappy smile, framed by a mass of curly hair and a colourful headband. Her energy and her laid back persona are sufficient to dissolve any initial fears and concerns I have, leaving in their wake a sense of calm.
We sit and share stories of our experiences as volunteer managers on various programs in Africa, over a breakfast of pancakes and golden layered macchiatos stong enough to fuel a jet engine.
Next we march through bustling, haphazard city centre streets and Liyu organises a room for me at a renown backpackers spot a stone’s through from the sensory overload that is Piazza and De Gualle square. We part ways, but not before Liyu has given me a local sim and a list of useful contacts, and plenty of useful info on bus routes and local prices.
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| Liyu Household. |
I put my feet up to thumb through my Bradt guide to Ethiopia for some inspiration on places to visit. In a communal sofa area and wifi hotspot i strike up conversation with a rather intrepid Australian traveller who has recently returned from Egypt to renew his Ethiopia work visa and is about to embark on a journey to the Ethiopian boarder with Sudan to assist in a community led well building project in a remote village. He glows with passion and enthusiasm for off the beaten track travel. He tells me that the only way to experience real Ethiopia is to do exactly that- venture off the beaten track, to escape the con artists and pick pockets and to visit towns and villages where you’d be hard pushed to even pay for coffee or food- which inevitably means putting one’s lonely planet book to the bottom of one’s metaphorical (or actual) rucksack, getting on the next bus to goodness knows where, becoming acquainted with goodness knows who and learning to trust that a path will be shaped out on one’s journey to wherever. Daydreamer, idealist or pioneer, either way this particular individual has unknowingly assisted me in taking one tiny but important step in the right direction. In beginning the slow process of letting go of my anxieties and need for rutheless planning and overt self preservation, which are all shortcomings of a safe and structured existence in the UK; although this doesn’t imply that realistic and sensible self preservation isn’t needed!
With renewed faith and increased confidence, I stuff a wallet with small denominations of Ethiopian Birr (Ethiopian currency) , step out of the confides of my hotel and in to the stifling and seemingly endless urban jungle that is Addis Ababa, at least a little more physiologically prepared for the unknown than two days previous, boarding my flight in London.
The next few days I spend with an inspiring couple- a long term volunteer and IT technician from Dublin called Mark, and his Ethiopian wife-to-be Eden, staying at their apartment in a large block of flats in a new build ‘condominium’ close to the British Embassy which backs on to a small shanty dwelling. We drive across town and negotiate treacherous but slow moving traffic in a crumbling but fully functioning 40 year old Citroën CV, delivering clothing, toiletry and monetary donations to a well established centre for the elderly and disabled located out in the sticks on the edge of the city.
We stop off for a lunch of njira and wat (porous, spongy pancakes with the lateral dimensions of a bike tyre and topped with a seemingly endless array of spicy veggie sauces and salads) in a modist back street cafe somewhere in the midst of a cluster of half built tower blocks. It’s fasting season for Ethiopian Orthodox Christians, which means meat is not available at most establishments, or indeed in households for that matter. Eden informs me that this two month meat free period is also characterised by fewer weddings, less daytime boozing and a subdued party scene in general. There is no wedding ceremony without the classic raw beef dish, Eden informs me. I’m curious to try this Ethiopian version of stake tartar.
To overcome the afternoon food slump we visit an even smaller coffee shack to share some comical, coffee-fuelled and frequently politcally oriented stories with a small crowd of like minded mid afternoon coffee enthusiasts (including one towering man in a suit who runs marathons all over the world and whose pre workout fuel of choice is coffee). Here, syrup-strength, sugary coffee is brewed in intricate clay vessels and poured from a height in to thimble-like cups arranged delicately on a wooden tray at floor level, and served in this particular establishment by Eden’s friend of old; a lady whose previous business selling women’s clothing and accessories wasn’t bringing in enough Birr to sustain a life in the city. She doubles up with laughter as she shows us her secret bank account and ATM: a wadge of notes and coins concealed under a box on a shelf. I ask if I can pay by Visa, which is received with more giggling, and gets the whole room laughing for longer than is reasonable for such a passing comment. I think the coffee is laced with something a bit stiffer.
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| Ethiopian Flag |
AN ETHIOPIAN SOCIAL BREAKFAST.
It’s a blissfully sunny Sunday morning. I watch church goers- notably women adorned in flowing white and gold dresses accompanied by men in suit shirts and trousers- returning home from early morning services. Mark and I head to local shops to buy njira and herby Italian style bread for a communal breakfast at his friend Martina’s flat. Martina is a charismatic, cheeky and resilient woman in her early thirties with one very naughty, defiant young son and a polite, intelligent daughter in her early teens. Her daughter spends the morning patiently roasting coffee beans and brewing dangerously strong coffee for all to share.We find space to sit in a living room full of guests- all women- who are visiting Martina during her illness. I’m told she has been discharged from hospital and is now recovering with the aid of stong pain killers, although she’s still not very mobile and shows clear frustration at not being in good health. Despite her illness and physical lethargy, she is a woman of vitality and charm, with her own dark humoured slant on all topics of conversation. Whilst reminiscing about time spent as a teenager living in France, she describes walking around in a mini skirt, being jeered at by men sitting outside cafes shouting ‘crazy African woman’; she describes walking past with her head held high and a smirk on her face, whilst threatening to stick her high heels their asses. In a thick french Amharic accent she describes her observations of the English, the French and the Italians, concluding, respectively, that they are closed off to emotions, they eat too much and they talk to much. When I tell her I’m English, she grins and replies 'I’ll shut up now before I start a fight’. She decides not to persue this topic, but only after giving us her take on 'the Americans’. “They often come to Ethiopia and say, look at this mud on my shoes, I didn’t ask for this”.Mark prepares popcorn on a gas stove to accompany second and third rounds of coffee. It is in this caffeine fuelled setting, where conversation flows freely and people find pleasure in very little more than one other’s stories, that cultural barriers, for a short while at least, dissolve in the ether (or in the coffee!).
I must reiterate that this aforementioned approach to travel can, but definitely shouldn’t, be practiced without the preparations that any trip of this nature and scale requires; research in to safe and troublesome locations, visa and entry requirements, embassy information, health insurance, currency, transport ect.
If all this initial planning and paper work is carried out with a relaxed approach-which i believe is difficult but attainable- the rest can be fulfilled with the right balance of good faith, cation, common sense, boundless enthusiasm for all things new and interesting and unfamiliar, and lastly the plonker-avoiding instincts and strategies which can only be gained from experience when travelling.
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| Feb 27th: Wondo Genet natural springs with Solomon and his two children, Natti (right) aged 8 and Hanni (left) aged 5. More on Solomon family and my time in Hawassa to follow. |
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| The Liyu household, Suluta, Addis Ababa: (Above left photo: Lili with her 11 month old child; right photo [left to right] Liyu, Lili and Tesfun) I receive an offer of invitation to stay at Liyu’s house with her brother, sister and Tesfun, a family friend, at a big house in the commuter belt town on the northern border of Addis called Suluta. I wait in the same cafe I first met Liyu with a spicy cup of shai, and I’m shortly joined by Tesfun, a friendly and unassuming thirty-something man with teeth even more gappy than Liyu’s. In Teafun’s shiny, souped-up five door Toyota, we breeze through central Addis and onwards north to pick up Liyu’s twin sister Lili from work. Lili is a chubbier; equally radiant version of her sister. SULUTA WEEK 1 |
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| Lake Hawassa. |
Security guard for Ethiopia Electricity Board office, Hawassa branch. I wait for my contact Solomon to meet me from the bus station and decide to seek some peace and quiet in this adjacent car park. The security guard invites me to take a seat next to the security booth, and he tells me about his three grown up children who are working in Hawassa. This guy does 24 hour solid guard shifts with one other colleague; they are given 72 hour rest periods in between shifts. Clearly a wise old soul, he offers me some advice on how to read Ethiopians and how to avoid trouble on my travels. It’s a shame I didn’t catch his name!
Road to Hawassa- week 1
A taste of public transport.
I spend the rest of the day travelling rough from north to south across the capital, to a modern, expanding lakeside town 200km south called Hawassa. I experience for the first time how everyday commuters travel. I walk with purpose in to overwhelmingly busy bus depots, shaking off over interested bus touts, seeking out honest looking shop owners who happily guide me to the right bus in a mass of minibuses and coaches whose conductors contend for passengers by squabbling and leading potential passengers by the arm to their bus. I find myself squeezing my tall frame in to packed minibuses which blare out upbeat, fast paced Ethiopian pop music and overtake lorries as they overtake cars which are in turn swerving to avoid hitting horse drawn carts, swathes of school children and hawkers which dwell at the side of the road. It’s hot, it’s cramed, it’s definitely dangerous, but I love it! The interesting people i meet and the conversations which inevitably take place on these journeys, along with the breathtaking scenery, are perfectly valid reasons not to choose to travel by air across Ethiopia. Journeys inevitability take much longer than expected, as bus drivers often do circuits of large towns en route in order to pick up as many passengers as possible. This means arriving at a bus station, having a tour of the backstreets and the houses, before arriving back at the bus station to continue the onward journey. You have to laugh about it, because to become impatient or to take offense is pointless. This is the way public transport works here, and if you leave Addis at 10am for a 3pm meeting in Hawassa, you should already know to ring ahead to preempt your lateness or absence from said meeting…unless you have a car or you choose to fly!
I arrive in Hawassa, making a quick escape from the bus station and waiting with some friendly security guards in the car park of the national electricity grid main office. My first point of contact Solomon- my good friend Seb’s host father on the discontinued VSO ICS program- meets me in in his white UN/ NGO style Toyota pickup. He informs me he’s driven straight from the bar and I sense he’s had a few for the road, not because he is driving recklessly; in fact he is one of those obscure people who can drink and drive and party all night long whilst holding down two business, renting out two flats and sustaining a marriage. A true man about town, Sol grins at me revealing teeth stained from years of chewing chat and living the high life. I know immediately that in his company I’ll be living it up as well. This quickly comes to fruition as I’m surrounded by business men endlessly taking calls on oversized smart phones, as our tiny round table becomes littered with empty beer bottles. These are rapidly replenished by a graceful and efficient waitress, at Sol’s own bar and restaurant. Before long I’m drunk, full of njera and meat and thinking of nothing other than sleep. But the night is young and there’s time for one more before we drop off various staff members- the chef and a waiter- at their respective houses across town and then head to Sol’s own guarded household within his office compound. Here I meet his devoted wife, a beautiful woman in a white wrap around headress, who is still cooking at 11pm. The children are in bed so we sit in the living room eating homemade sweet bread and watching quirky music videos on TV. A row of women in white dresses with braided hair jerk their shoulders and heads back and forth rhythmically to rapid beats: an odd blend of ska, afrobeat and cheesy pop, all filmed in a backdrop of luscious rolling highlands and crumbling churches. When I finally head to bed (in Seb’s old room), the ceiling is spinning a little and I’m asleep before my pead hits the hillow…wait, that’s not what I meant.
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| 3rd March: Rock hewn churches and meeting pastoralists in Lalibela |
HAWASA BUSINESS AS USUAL.
I refuse the offer of using the gym and pool at the famous Haile Selassie resort for the extra few hours in bed. Sol uses the facilities early in the morning before office hours. He puts me in touch with his personal tuktuk driver who ferries me around town all day long, and even accompanies me on a boat trip across Hawassa lake and on a short but steep trek to the pinnacle of the misleadingly named tabletop mountain. I observe a film crew shooting some sort of soap opera at the edge of the lake. Women in expensive looking Levis perch on low tree branches exchanging lines and elaborate hand gestures. A man in a trilby and sunnies- clearly a big shot director- facilitates the scene and paces up and down between takes.
Sol’s tuktuk driver and I stop for coffee and later in the day for beer, in some curious local establishments. I know absolutely no Amharic and he speaks very little English but we get by with hand gestures and manage to have some rather interesting half-conversations. Hawassa is a town with a pulse and it is full of budding young self assured Ethiopians with confidence in their strides. Young women in dress suits and full length dresses ride their own motorbikes to the office, conscious not to ruin immaculate hair do’s and so opting out of wearing bike helmets. Groups of university students stream out of coffee shops and in to tuktuks at the end of the lunch hour, and later file in to bars to socialise over draught beer. The male students wear low rise jeans and sun glasses and some have platted hair. The females are sporting heels, slim jeans and flowery tops with exposed shoulders. Elderly muslim women in traditional white robes jaywalk in an orderly line across four-lane roundabouts without a hint of urgency as tuktuks swerve to avoid collisions. It’s like mekka has been relocated to central Hawassa and the pace has not been adjusted to suit the environment. This is the rapidly modernising, self assured Africa that I would like to see trending across the continent.
Although not all is positive about this transition to modern day Africa. I spend the next few days cruising from restaurant to hotel bar, drinking whisky and being approached by very attractive Ethiopian girls dressed like and acting like many UK girls I have seen in Propaganda in Bristol. Which is a great ego boost, but the reality is, it’s not too many steps away from being the north east African equivalent of Thailand. It all seems so artificial. And those who can’t afford to drink black label in a shiny back lit bar stocked to the hilt with imported spirits…well they can find a drinking hole somewhere down the road. Which is probably where the real party is happening anyway. I’ve spent my best moments dancing to reverberating, scratchy Tanzanian pop music in a large chicken-coup-style back yard in the middle of nowhere with toddlers, teens and the elderly all dancing in a circle of dust and sand without a care in the world. And it didn’t cost me a shilling.
Exploring Hawassa and surrounds with Solomon, Nattie, Hanni and friends.
FEELING A CHANGE.
I spend another night in a glitzy bar trying to stomach bottled beer. Sol won’t let me spend a penny. This generosity shouldn’t be taken for granted, as it comes from a place of genuine hospitality. And this entrepreneurial social butterfly has received his guest whole heartedly. Nonetheless, I can sense that it is high time to experience Ethiopia from an entirely different perspective. I can’t fail to mention that I spend more time than is healthy searching for a unique experience; to be a fly on the wall in the living room of some ancient grandmother living in a mud hut eating maize meal with our hands, or riding on the back of a farm truck bounding across a rice field in a far flung village. I’ve always suffered the dissatisfaction of not finding that exact thing which isn’t in any guide book. For me, it’s like a mirage in a desert. But I’ve had a revelation. A card i received from my Aunty during a particularly tough period at university reads ‘It’s not the destination, but the thrill of the ride’ above an illustration of a boy in a tiny rowing boat on a vast sea. I’m making a concerted effort to stop searching and to start enjoying the present, whether or not what I’m experiencing is what I was searching for. I am otherwise in danger of missing out on the opportunities and ignoring the possibilities which arrive on my doorstep in the here and now. My experiences living in a very rural community in central Tanzania should have made me appreciate just how fortunate I am to at least be able to leave my own city and my home country and to learn a lot from interactions with people from different walks of life. It really shouldn’t be about going above and beyond this. Ticking destinations off a list, seeing the 'big five’ in the Serengeti or trying to make a statement by going somewhere dangerous, obscure or where the beer is obscenely cheap!
I get to mix with an affluent crowd of business owners, architects, consultants and teachers at Sol’s bar and upstairs fit for purpose relaxation room. Here, men slouch on large cushions and padded floors, sifting through paper work, sending emails and keeping up energy levels with the constant chewing of chat; a widely available leaf which provides a high for weary mid afternoon workers across the nation. Later in the evening we retire to the downstairs bar and drink gin on ice. It’s the same waitress on duty and she mills around constantly taking orders and popping beer bottles. Customer’s faces are lit up by the glow of laptop screens and tablets.
LAST DAYS IN HAWASSA.
I get talking to a rotund gentleman with greying hair and slim designer glasses who owns a fire safety company with branches in the UK and Japan. He invites me to stay at his residence in Zawai, a small town home to the large French owned Castle beer brewery. This is the perfect stop off between Hawassa and Addis, and an opportunity for me to be a fly on the wall in another community, albeit one of wealth and affluence comparable to that of Sol and Co. I’ve hardly experienced the full spectrum of wealth and poverty in Ethiopia. But there is still time.
OUT AND ABOUT.
I take a stroll through Hawassa town, soaking up all the sights and sounds, observing spectators of a local football match sitting in trees and peering over a fence to get a good angle on the game. I’m in the mood to socialise but don’t want to do so with people lonely or nosy enough to feel the need to frantically call me over from opposite side of the road, wherein I run the risk of being ensnared in a forced and awkward conversation inevitability prompted by such questions as ‘how do you see Ethiopia, and 'how is the environment in your country’. I settle on a compromise situation. A half stumble across a group of idle mid thirties-something men huddled around a postage stamped sized table inside a coffee shack, who eagerly pull up a stool for me and signal to a lady sitting in the shadows to pour me some black tarr-like substance (it might be coffee). Just my sort of social venue. Before long we’re discussing the fate of Lucy, the oldest human fossil on the planet, and these gents proceed to give me a short, bite sized account of the history of the country. We even stray in to the arena of current politics and the sustained hostility between Ethiopia and Eritrea. I make my contribution by giving a Swahili lesson, which is received with curiosity, owing to my seldom encountered enthusiasm for all things East African.
The new generation
I meet Sol’s children in the evening. His daughter Hanni, aged 5 and his son Nattie, aged 8. Sol’s personal tuktuk driver collects the kids from school at 3:30pm and ferries them to the house. They are fantastic, full of energy and infinately patient at my lack of Amharic. They greet me by holding my hands and skipping down the drive to the front door, with pastel pink and blue lunchboxes in hand. The boy asks after Seb and I tell him that he’ll definitely be coming back to Hawassa to visit. They run around the front and the back of the house with my binoculars (yes, i know what you’re thinking, and no I’m not ashamed to own them), spotting birds in the trees and trying and failing to give one another a fair share of the viewing. Solomon spends little time with the children during the week, and he is seldom at home in the evenings. I’m pretty certain he’s made no adjustments to his routine on my behalf , but I’m easy going and it’s just up to me to adjust or to move on. This is by no means a criticism of Sol, in fact I sense that he adores his wife and children.
I do eventually make it to the Hailie Selassie resort and I have the privilege of swimming in an infinity pool which appears by some trick of topography to flow directly in to lake Hawasaa. A real stunning site in the early morning hazy sunshine. A morning of luxury to savour before I hit the road again.
BIG MAMA'S COFFEE SHOP SOCIAL CLUB.
This has to be the highlight in a series of random coffee shop encounters: I wander through the cobbled backstreets of Hawassa, past endless rows of cafes, shoe shops, barbers and bakers, with no particular destination in mind. I walk past a dingy looking cafe with a tin roof and a tarpaulin draped over a wooden frame for a shop front and I take the chance and duck my head in. I see some friendly faces and a pot of coffee on a charcoal stove steaming away and so I decide to take a seat. And it was a good choice, because the lady running the place- going by the name of big mama- is a one woman show. She’s singing, dancing and having comedic conversations with a large ceramic coffee pot; but she is not bonkers, just rather eccentric, and a great host. She eyes up my Kenyan villager sandals and says i have beautiful toes, and frequently refers to be as ‘sweetie’, which is one of the only English words besides 'big’ and 'mamma’ which she knows. This is somehow not an awkward experience at all. Infact, I have had very few awkward experiences since arriving in the country, despite the obvious pontential for many. Mutual misunderstandings and mishaps have, up until now taken the natural course of humour. Before long big mamma is frying up various vegetable 'wats’ on a miniscule gas stove, ordering in the draught beers and local 'tej’ (a sweet alcoholic drink not dissimilar to cloudy cider), and, joined by a group of family and friends, we are soon bent over double laughing at the silliest of observations, which as a result of the language barrier become all the more obscure. On more than one occasion someone passes me a phone and I end up talking to so and so’s friend from America who is apparently living in Hawassa. 'Hi, this is Jamie’ I say with a straight face, 'nice to talk to you. I’m here with your friend at Big Mamma’s Cafe’ to which there is an eruption of deep belly laughs. Most definitely an over reaction to my attempt at comedy, but I go along with it anyway, and before long the next round of beers is being delivered by a boy running backwards and forwards from a bar accross the street and glasses are clinking. One girl hand feeds us all, and I find my mouth being stuffed with spicy injera, beyond the point of satiety. But as a guest I’m not really in a position to say no, and wouldn’t really have wanted to either. Another lady crunches unashamedly on handfuls of refined sugar, and the grains which miss her mouth are scattered across the coffee table. She smiles to reveal a mouth of teeth blackened from excessive chat chewing, but somehow retains an unconventional beauty which I can only attribute to bold self assuredness, and the unquestionably charming intonations and deep rolling r’s which are the signature of spoken Amharic. To the untrained ear these sounds are poetic and playful. All this is occurring a few buildings down the street from the main compound of the UN world food program and we regularly spot big white 4x4s rolling past our shack. I can’t help but rate the two contrasting experiences: a morning of exclusive luxury in a spa resport, or an afternoon sitting on a rickety wooden stool in the company of giving, caring strangers. In conclusion, they were both great and in spite of my drive to always seek new experiences, I would happily repeat this day all over again tomorrow.
GOODBYE HAWASSA.
It’s a day of mixed emotions. I’m sad to leave my new found niche in this curious new environment. I’ve also been acquainted with a community of non assuming entrepreneurs whose every waking moment is about networking and socialising; supporting one another by means which are equal parts subtle and distinct. I’m always astounded- and a little exhausted- by the relentlessness of this social and communal existence. I feel as though I have adapted some extent, and have found this to be a very rewarding experience. Next stop: Lalibela by bus.
GOODBYE HAWASSA.
It’s a day of mixed emotions. I’m sad to leave my new found niche in this curious new environment. I’ve also been acquainted with a community of non assuming entrepreneurs whose every waking moment is about networking and socialising; supporting one another by means which are equal parts subtle and distinct. I’m always astounded- and a little exhausted- by the relentlessness of this social and communal existence. I feel as though I have adapted some extent, and have found this to be a very rewarding experience. Next stop: Lalibela by bus.
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| Ethiopian Highlands - Lalibela and its environs |
Woldia is non discript transit town which boast a healthy cohort of con artists and general scammers, who wait patiently for the arrival of sleepy, disorientated travellers disembarking at the bus terminus. Two such opportunists somehow end up boarding my tuktuk, guiding me to a budget hotel and as the penny drops it’s too late. They begin negotiating the price of a room with an attendant working at the hotel, and after we have agreed a price these two cling ons are still standing in my hotel room eyeing my wallet hungrily. ”We’ve helped you get your room, now you need to pay us 100 birr each, and then we can take you to the bus station to buy your ticket as they sell out quickly”, one of these vagabonds pipes up.
Usually I would be quicker off the mark, but clearly I fail to recognise the scenario in time. I find myself becoming a little stressed, and rambling on about being a volunteer and not appreciating being ripped off. Surprisingly and to my relief, these particular pair decide to settle, albeit begrudgingly, for a meager 10 birr each and I’m relieved of their company. The hotel attendant looks on with confusion and is happy to part from my company as well.
I never feel particularly welcomed in Woldea, but nor am I particularly concerned about gaining it’s title of respect. After all, it is just a bland overnight stop on a journey to a place altogether more spectacular. In spite of this shaky introduction, I manage to have a relaxing evening and get chatting to two young football obsessives outside a coffee shop who offer me a VIP seat (a plastic chair at the front of the room as opposed to a coke crate at the back) in a Muslim run cafe which is screening another premier league match: Arsenal Vs Sunderland. The room is buzzing with the cohesive excitement and anticipation of a hundred or so Arsenal fans. I find I’m sitting next to the only two or three Sunderland fans in the room. They don’t dare to cheer for the opposition, in fear of their cover being blown.
BUS TO LALIBELA.
In terms of local intercity budget travel options, I thought I had seen it all. That was until I hopped on the 7:30-bone shaker-tin-box-on-wheels service to Lalibela. I subsequently learn about an alternative and all together less hazardous road from Woldea to Lalibela, but hindsight is a wonderful thing and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
My bus rattles its way along the lesser popular of the two roads to Lalibela: a poorly maintained gravel track which hugs the contours of a long valley dotted by villages but lacking in any noteworthy vegetation. We stop at regular intervals to pick up people heading to Lalibela or hopping between villages. No stop is uneventful. A ceremony is made of the departure of almost every individual who climbs aboard, with family and friends passing luggage through windows and up to the roof rack, before running after the bus as it pulls away. Children race after the bus until their legs can no longer keep pace. In fact the whole village seems to stop its activities to witness this motorised pilgrimage to Lalibela.
My bus rattles its way along the lesser popular of the two roads to Lalibela: a poorly maintained gravel track which hugs the contours of a long valley dotted by villages but lacking in any noteworthy vegetation. We stop at regular intervals to pick up people heading to Lalibela or hopping between villages. No stop is uneventful. A ceremony is made of the departure of almost every individual who climbs aboard, with family and friends passing luggage through windows and up to the roof rack, before running after the bus as it pulls away. Children race after the bus until their legs can no longer keep pace. In fact the whole village seems to stop its activities to witness this motorised pilgrimage to Lalibela.
Filled to capacity.
Slowly but surely the isle of the bus is crammed with elderly men and women beyond any reasonable- or seemingly possible- capacity. The conductor swings from one seat to another like an multi tasking chimpanzee, clinging on to overhead luggage racks with one hand and crouching to issue tickets and to recieve cash with the other.
On more than one occasion the bus teeters on the edge of a sharp bend in the road which hugs a sheer cliff face. The passengers hold their breaths in unison in these short lived near-death moments. The bus engine splutters and bums lift feet in the air as the wheels bounce across rocks and potholes. One poor girl sitting next to me has her head in a plastic bag behind a window curtain and is wretching at each jerking movement. There is a momentary but unmistakable sense of relief which we all bask in as the bus pulls in to Lalibela bus station. This sensation is gone in a flash as thoughts turn to the onward travel, business and affairs.
On firm ground.
I smile to my self, not out of relief, but at the notion that the same bus driver traverses this almost impassable road between Woldia and Lalibela on a daily basis, and that a wooden cross and a sign reading ‘in God we trust’ above the windscreen are all that really protect this poor soul from plunging himself and all his passengers to the bottom of a ravine.
I smile to my self, not out of relief, but at the notion that the same bus driver traverses this almost impassable road between Woldia and Lalibela on a daily basis, and that a wooden cross and a sign reading ‘in God we trust’ above the windscreen are all that really protect this poor soul from plunging himself and all his passengers to the bottom of a ravine.
Call me God fearing if you like, but I can’t help but feel a metal barrier would be far more effective than faith in God in this situation.
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Escaping the tourist trap in Lalibela - end of week 2
Lalibela- with it’s rich and elaborate maze of rock hewn churches and stunning mountain setting- receives more foreign visitors than any other site in the country. There is every reason for this magnificent town to be the focal point of tourism. But the shortcomings are numerous and as you know by now, I’m usually in my element slipping away in to local cafes and bars, or climbing the mountains and meeting those curious and incredibly hard working people who balance insanely large bundles of hay and firewood on their heads and whose enterage is likely to be a herd of twenty or more goats which are led- sometimes stubbornly- up and down steep mountain paths. And that is exactly how I keep myself occupied in and around Lalibela. I meet two like minded Italian men (Oliver and Mario) at Bet St George on the first day and we spend the next three days trekking together in the hills and through some unfrequented villages.
Guests in the hamlets surrounding Lalibela.
In the countryside we are invited in to some rather intriguing households after being hollered at from quite a distance by young girls and boys shouting ‘buna!’ (coffee). We make our way down steep verges to a collection of circular huts crafted from earth, manure, wood and straw. These dwellings are a feat of architecture in their own right: perfectly circular with walls immaculately plastered to a smooth finish and well insulated. One can escape the heat of the blazing midday sun by ducking in to one of these houses and socialising with its inhabitants. We sit on miniscule wooden stools in one of these cool yert-like structures and enjoy the simple pleasures of fresh coffee and friendly company. A faint ray of sunshine cascades through a tiny window set deep in the mud wall. One such household, the largest and smartest of a particularly remote hamlet at the base of a steep valley, is headed by a church priest. We recognise him from one of our earlier visits to the main northern cluster of churches in Lalibela town.
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| Visiting churches of Lalibela |
We are offered endless helpings of home made brown injera and an exceptionally spicy and gritty blend of shiro wat, which is proceeded by an odd coffee-chai fusion, served with copious amounts of sugar. Just the energy hit we need after a five hour hike in sun and in preparation for the five hour walk back home. We are accustomed now to being stared at whilst eating and drinking. I reason that this attentiveness stems from a desire to please guests, and our hosts achieve great satisfaction in seeing as burping and rubbing our stomachs to signal having eaten beyond satiety. But I don’t feel as though I am the centre of attention in this setting. Family and friends come and go quite casually, often without formal introductions or farwells. In short, the whole process is very natural.
Visiting the houses of priests in hamlets surrounding Lalibela. Top left: a young girl prepares coffee at her home as her older siblings engage their guests in the chewing of chat; middle: we are offered roasted barley as a snack to accompany our coffee; bottom left and right: a priest dresses up for the occasion in his family home.
Timing our farewells.
After a considerable time spent nodding and responding to questions with one of only four learned Amharic words (ishi, amesegenalhu, awo and eye), my travel companions and I signal to one another that we should get going, so as to make it back to town before sunset. We are led back to Lalibela on a very long but far less undulating path by a shepard who accompanied is by a very flatulent donkey saddled with a heavy sack of barley. Both man and mule proceed at an impressive pace and we struggle to keep up. After every kilometer or so the straps on the donkey are tightened and the poor old creature noisily breaks wind, to the amusement of our shepard and some vagabond kids who have followed us. We’re joined by a dozy looking flute player who stops at regular intervals to whistle an eerie tune atop a prominent rock or bend in the path, to no avail. My most useful phrase to date is ‘wedetno’ which translates approximately as ‘where are you going’, to which many have replied with a shrug, before continuing to passively persue me and my travel companions.
Local milk
On another occasion we are invited to drink local cow’s milk in a house-come-barn where we make every attempt to conceal our distaste for this sour, lumpy drink, in the seemingly scrutinising gaze of two or three nonchalant cows who have not long recieved a thorough milking to produce the stuff . Poor Mario spends much of the night on the toilet wishing he’d politely refused a further helping of a special non pasteurised local yogurt. Brave man.
Outlet for restlessness.
A cold beer in the evenings in the company of other travellers- two female dutch nurses working in a remote hospital near the boarder with Eritrea, and two ultra laid back Rastafarians living out of Shesheme- goes down a treat after long excursions in the day. Some of my restlessness is vented through these daily exercises, but does unfortunately resurface when I hit the road again and have to indure the sounds of high pitched Ethiopian pop music over the incessant rattling of warn out bus engines for hours on end. This is Ethiopia without the luxury of flying! I can almost say it’s worth it, but at times I do wish I could bypass some routes by jetting from one town to another.
Scenes from our Lalibela treks. Top left: Oliver plays the role of involuntary pide piper as he is pursued by a swathe of over inquisitive children on their way to collect water; top right: a lady roasts and grinds coffee at her home to produce the freshest coffee you can imagine. The Jebina (coffee pot) comes to the boil on an open fire stove; middle left: the shepard who gudies Oliver, Mario and I back to Lalibela, carrying a heavy sack of flower over his shoulder and offering to carry our bags also!; middle right: a strong girl who hauls a 25L jerry can full of water on her back for at least 2km, from a source in a basin between a gap in two rocks, to her hamlet in the direction of Lalibela; bottom: images of landscapes on our treks around Lalibela
Chance meeting.
I meet Tadesse in the least convenient of circumstances, but our chance meeting turns in to a really positive experience. I travel out of Lalibela on a very early morning bus in the direction of Woldia at the end of my second week in Ethiopia, when it dawns on me that I’ve left my security belt with passport, visa money and remaining Ethiopian currency under the mattress in my room at the hotel-come-brothel in Lalibela. Shit! I feel that initial sinking feeling one has when coming to terms with a new and daunting prospect and one which may ruin an otherwise very fulfilling time. As with most difficult positions I’ve been in, I remain composed and methodical, despite my concealed panic . Fortunately the logical part of my brain takes control and I remain calm.
Unplanned stop over.
A helpful chap stops the bus for me, refunds me the bus fair from Ghashena to Woldia and I alight and walk along a 200m stretch of suburban asphalt to the bus station. I take a seat in a cafe and collect my thoughts over a sugary chai. It’s a decidedly chilly morning and It’s not long before I’m sharing a hot breakfast with a generous cafe owner, with the usual audience of curious children who clearly aren’t used to seeing a white man dressed in a Masai blanket sipping tea in their neighbourhood at 8 a.m.
I tactfully avoid mini bus touts attempting to charge me double fare for a speedy delivery to Lalibela, and before long the bus from Woldea arrives. The driver and passengers file off the bus and disperse in to various cafes to take breakfast. I’m told the bus is full and there’s no room to squeeze in one more. This frustrates me because most buses I’ve been on have been packed to the rafters, and even then there’s usually room for at least 5 more shepards and a few children. I avoid contact with over attentive conversationalists (believe me, no traveller in Ethiopia will be deprived of conversation, tedious though the topic is likely to be) and I get talking to a contemplative chap named Tadesse who is waiting in the shade of the bus.
A helping hand.
I tell Tadesse of my predicament and next thing I know he’s negotiating with the driver and conductor to find me a space. This exchange becomes far more longwinded than it ought to be, but in short I manage to get on the bus beyond the traffic police checkpoint just out of town. It’s not long before everyone on the bus knows my situation. One English speaking chap- who happens to be a painter and is very happy to be able to show me all his artwork on his smart phone- calls ahead to the police station alerting them of a potentially lost or stolen passport. I feel like a charity case, people are even offering to pay my bus fair. Perhaps it’s my scruffy firfir (spicy red curry) stained trousers and my unwashed hair. My image and my chosen mode of transport certainty aren’t consistent with a wealthy westerner who is able to fork out for a new passport without going bankrupt.
Breakdown.
The bus decides to cough and splutter to a stop in a village en route to Lalibela and we sit tight for at least 30 minutes before someone finally waters the poor tin box on wheels and it coughs up some black smoke and starts running again. My logic brain tells me not to fret, as no normal person arrives at their hotel room and looks under the mattress in case some wally has left some cash there.
Back to Lalibela.
Breakdown.
The bus decides to cough and splutter to a stop in a village en route to Lalibela and we sit tight for at least 30 minutes before someone finally waters the poor tin box on wheels and it coughs up some black smoke and starts running again. My logic brain tells me not to fret, as no normal person arrives at their hotel room and looks under the mattress in case some wally has left some cash there.
Back to Lalibela.
Tedesse accompanies me all the way to my hotel in Lalibela and to my relief we find my security belt just where I left it. We have to rouse the person currently occupying the room- none other than the lady who runs the kitchen and has been washing my clothes over the past few days. She looks at me sleepily and in a state of confusion. She must be thinking ‘what is this plonker doing back here again after leaving this morning by jumping the gate’- yes the gate was locked at 5am and there was nobody around to open it. Perhaps she thinks I was making some sort of guilty altruistic escape, attempting to plant all my cash under the mattress for the next poor Ethiopian customer to find.
I hug Tadesse and buy him lunch for his efforts. We share a massive injera loaded with fasting vegetarian dishes, and he tips his plate of spaghetti on top creating some sort of unique Italian-Ethiopian fusion dish.
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| Tadesse Melaku |
Meeting Tadesse’s family.
Tadesse offers me a bed in his family home which I gratefully accept and we bus it to his neighbourhood on the edge of town (the UNESCO branch of the UN rehoused many of Lalibela’s population who were formerly living around the churches: this site is now exclusively a place for worshippers and tourists). The neighbourhood is made up of new builds arranged in a grid structure in the style of suburban one storey American houses. Altogether not too shabby, especially on a backdrop of glorious mountains and the adjacent valley which is home to a dry river bed (which apparently flows like the Nile in the rainy season).
I meet Tadessa’s sister and his niece called Heaven, a 10 year old girl who just so happens to be an absolute angel! She takes me by the hand and walks with me as we visit Tedesse’s various family and friends.
I gratefully accept all the food and coffee I’m offered by Tedesse’s sister and mother as we relax on some exceptionally comfortable sofas. CNN plays softly in the background.
Dinner and sleep.
I share egg and injera by candlelight with Heaven in a room full of various family members (it’s too dark to distinguish faces but I feel people watching to see I’m enjoying my food and I’m feeling at ease). Tedesse’s best friend Chuni offers up his bed in his nearby home and crashes on his sofa in front of the TV. Tadesse and I take the double in Chuni’s room. I find myself squashed up against the wall as Tadesse star fishes across the entire bed.
Chuni gives me the number of his old university lecturer who lives in Axum, although I later decide not to visit because of the shear distance from Lalibela to Axum.
Another early start.
I groan at 4:30am as my alarm goes off. All I want is to sleep. Tadesse shows me to the bus at 5am and negotiates the price with the conductor. We say our farewells and exchange numbers and I’m on my way to Woldia- again! This time with all my belongings.
WEEK 3 MARCH,19
OFF THE BEATEN TRUCK
I do manage to travel off the beaten track to some extent, but this isn’t quite the wild adventure I had anticipated. Although I adapt to life very quickly in Addis- owing to the hospitality of a few very valuable contacts- I find Ethiopia a tough country to explore without any real former preparation or insight (save for my trusty Bradt guide which is an in depth and honest travel guide tailor made for the independent traveller). On reflection I would probably have had a more fulfilling time travelling with someone more familiar with the lay of this land and its various languages and quirks, or visiting Ethiopia on a work basis, as I did Tanzania. At times I definitely lacked direction and purpose, though gratefully I was never lacking in support. I was acquainted with many a helpful soul along my journey. These individuals have supported me during moments of hesitancy and vulnerability and have given me a roof over my head when I’ve really needed it. They have also shown me some of the finer details and nuances which define the character of the country: those details which cannot easily be conveyed through writing. It is true that every place is to each individual associated with a distinct sensation or emotion. For me, when I reminisce about Kenya, I have soft impressions of sea air and sand, sweet mangos, lightly charred chapatis, the feeling of complete satiety and the rattling of a tuktuk crossing rough ground. Not particularly interesting images for most I should imagine, and justifiably so, as these images are my own. The significance of these images lies with the memories which are triggered by them. The people I met, the celebrations I have shared and the hardships I have faced. The images are those tastes, smells and feelings which I encountered regularly whilst going through all the motions.
I’m currently going through the motions of this new adventure and so have had little time to stop and reflect. My images are too fresh to have nostalgic value, although many I have tried to translate in to words or to portray through photography. There is still so much I would like to see and do here in Ethiopia and I’ll endeavour to visit again.
Tigrai - Hawzien and Megab.
The furthest I venture off the popular Northern circuit is to the spaghetti western town of Hawzien, which is the gateway to the Gheralta region and the fantastic Tigrai rock hewn churches.
Monday 9th March.
I arrive in Hawzien without a plan of action and I’m fortunate to get talking to a helpful Tigrigna speaker on the minibus ride from Mekele. He sorts me out with local accommodation and bicycle hire. I cycle to the nearby village of Megab, which is 8km from Hawazien along a new chinese built asphalt road, and a stones throw from two churches hewn in to sheer cliff faces. It is a truly stunning location. At the base of a sheer cliff face is the small village of Megab. I cycle through this spaghetti western scattering of pastel coloured houses and shops along an asphalt road, politely dismissing unofficial guides, as well as some of the most persistent children I’ve ever encountered in Ethiopia. I bask in the freedom from annoyances which travelling at haste can bring and I breeze past the last of the houses and along a sloping asphalt path which curves around the imposing Gheralta rock formation. My pedal powered freedom is short lived however, as I tackle a particularly steep section of the road and my right pedal snaps clean off. Great! I’ve been sold a dud bike. I should have looked it over more closely before naively accepting this crock of shite.
Back to square one.
With regret, I turn around and walk back up the road towards nuisance town. Various pedestrians I had whizzed passed on my way down the hill I have the privilege of bumping in to again on my return journey. One man who could very well be a cowboy in a spaghetti western walks with three or four donkeys which are saddled with sacks of grain and jerry cans filled to the brim with water. He eyes the pedal I’m wielding in my right hand and gives me a brief nod of understanding, not before he has giggled to himself at this foolish faranji who has purchased a death trap bicycle.
Forced socialising.
I increase my pace as I pass the first of Megab’s houses. Pretty quickly I have a following of curious children who abandon a game of table football to gawp at me, and a group of young lads lead me to a coffee shop. I resign to my fate, sitting and drinking the black syrup as all eyes are on me. At least two of the lads refer to themselves as guides, thrusting thier business cards and contact details in my direction. They are friendly enough though and once I shake off the gawpers and various stragglers with dollar signs in their eyes, some genuinely nice people emerge from the woodwork. We get talking about my work in Kenya and Tanzania and how the lifestyles here differ from Ethiopia. Based on my limited insight, I reason that very few Ethiopians have a clear concept of the lives of their neighbours in Kenya and Sudan, although are perhaps more familiar with current affairs in Somalia, Eritrea and Djibouti.
Bloody mindedness.
After attempts to vastly overcharge me for a tuktuk ride back to Hawzien, I decide to walk back instead. Call me stubborn, but after folding my knees up against my chest on cramped mini buses for the past two days I savour the fresh air and the chance to stretch my legs. It is a beautiful walk in the sunset, but it’s not long before a tuktuk pulls up beside me and a young scrawny lad has me agree to triple the local rate to ferry me and the bike back to town. He fixes the bike to the roof of his tiny vehicle and delivers me and the bike right to the door of the shop from whence we came. Mr bike hire man takes one look at the damage in a manner equivalent to that of a cowby builder who will do anything to make a few extra bob. ‘This is a problem’ he says shaking his head as he crouches by the severed pedal. ‘This costs 150 birr to fix’ he sighs and holds up the new crank and pedal for me to see.
Unreasonable demands.
Yes, it is. It’s your problem, and it almost killed me’ I say, albeit fruitlessly. I see his ploy very clearly. There’s no way he’ll let me away without coughing up for the damage, despite the fact that it’s his responsibility. But this is a bike shack built from corrugated iron in a rural Ethiopian market town, and not Halfords (although they too have a pretty poor track record for quality built bikes). He at least waivers the cost of the hire, in the knowledge that he will be making more money by billing me for parts and labour. I’m seething at his ridiculous demands but I’m not a tight arse and 150 bir is only £5. I press the cash in to his hand without a word and briskly walk back to my hotel. Shortly after there’s a knock at my door. Mr bike man is back, looking all apologetic but not enough to want to refund me. He’s here for the bicycle lock key which in my frustration I’d forgotten to hand over. ‘Crafty bugger’ I think to myself ‘he must have followed me to my hotel to see where he could find me in case I pulled a fast one’. This was certainly a day of frustration. I am at this stage, thankfully, unaware of the sheer tedium which I will inevitably face the following day on my excursion to the rock hewn churches of Gheralta.
Tigrai churches and unofficial guides - Tuesday, 10th March
I haven’t the need to write more than a very brief summary of my plight at the Tigrai churches. Troubles notwithstanding, these churches, built high up in the cliffs and concealed from onlookers at ground level, are the most intriguing and obscure structures I have ever seen, in the most stunning locations I have ever had the privilege of visiting. They have been painstakingly carved out of sandstone cliffs, teetering on the edge of sheer cliff faces overlooking the vast plains of the Tigrai region. In a word, breathtaking! For more information, pick up a Bradt guidebook to Ethiopia, which has a detailed section on these man made phenomena.
Money money money.
I learn two important lessons on this day: firstly to always agree an exact price and t&cs before hiring a local guide. Secondly, to be mentally prepared for sulky, manipulative money grabbing behaviour which may be the ruin of an otherwise fun filled outing. I’m accustomed to travelling and working voluntarily alongside locals but never before have I been in the position of customer in this setting. When money is involved the situation can be quite volatile. My day could have been much more enjoyable had it not been for the battle I had to fight with the guide and…well just about everyone else who wanted a slice of my money pie. I am by no means a wealthy traveller when compared to many who visit Ethiopia on all inclusive package tours, but I am European and I have enough dosh to fly all the way to Ethiopia, which straight away puts me in the ‘privileged’ category. And however stereotypical and simplistic this may sound, Ethiopians assume- perhaps not unreasonably- that all white folk are loaded.
So I spend much of the day dishing out ‘tips’ to local scouts, priests and those claiming to have contributed in some immeasurable way to my church visits, until my wallet is bare. Priests and scouts literally beg for ‘optional tips’, asking unashamedly for 100 bir each, even after all entrance fees have been paid. It’s not parting with cash that I find difficult- these are small amounts in british pounds after all- but the single-mindedness of those asking for the money. Any potential of a genuine and peaceful experience of the churches is lost. This is nothing new, and if I were a less sensitive and more wealthy individual, perhaps I would have taken it all with a pinch of salt. Upon reflection I reason that had I resorted to humour instead of becoming exasperated, I would surely have had an easier time of it.
Scenes of Tigrai rock hewn churches and surroundings at Gheralta rock, Eastern Tigrai. Top left: view from the tiny wooden door of Abba Daniel Korkor, overlooking surrounding plains; top right: priest inside Abuna Yemata church displays religious text in Ge'ez script- the official language of the Ethiopian Orthodox church; middle: guides and scouts hanging around whilst I enter the churches; Bottom left: roof murals inside Abuna Yemata Guh church hewn in to a sheer rock face on Gheralta rock; bottom right: a view from the entrance of Abuna Yemata looking outwards towards the opposite cliff face
Tigrai bicycle mishap and Tigrai guides: top left: my Tigrai church guide at a coffee house in Hawzien; top right: a fellow who we pick up on the way to the pub joins us for a few beers; bottom left: my bicycle is air lifted back to HQ in Hawzien after a total pedal write off.
BACK TO ADDISS ABABA AND SAYING FAREWELL TO ETHIOPIA.
I retrace my steps along the Axum - Addis road, starting the two day journey in Hawzien. The whole journey goes exceptionally smoothly, owing to my heightened awareness of potential problem areas and my resulting cool headedness, with a bit of good fortune thrown in.
Woldia again - new acquaintances.
My second visit to Woldia is far more successful than the first. I get talking to a young archaeology masters graduate on the mini bus between Alamata and Woldia. He is an academic with a hunger for acquiring new knowledge, a sharpness of wit and the ability to share his own knowledge in a way which sparks one’s own academic interests; qualities which must surely be prerequisite to a prosperous future. He twists in his seat to face me and the petite older lady who is squashed up next to me. She wears a silk veil and has faded tattoos on her slender hands. These are applied during childhood by priests who use thorns and black ink; a world away from the electric needles and full colour tattoos associated with fashion, musicianship or prisons in the west! These markings are certainly a symbol of the strength of women from far reaches of the country, often applied to fight illnesses in childhood. Many women also have markings on their foreheads. It has to be said I know very little about their cultural or religious significance, but there must surely be a vast history to explore. This particular lady asks me intriguing questions in rapid, high pitched Amharic. The young student happily translates the questions in to English and then my answers back in to Amharic. In this back and forth fashion, we all manage to have a really open chat about family life and volunteering. At one point the lady asks why i’m not married with children and offers to find me a Tigrai wife in Ethiopia. I smile in surprise: this is the first time in Ethiopia someone has confronted this topic so openly. Whereas one could barely go a day without being promoted to marry a young Tanzanian lady, in Ethiopia nobody seems particularly concerned about one’s marital status or future prospects.
Women - pillar of strength in Africa.
On an unrealted but important note: women in Ethiopia- and Africa in general for that matter- whether physically powerful or slight and delicate, possess a universal strength which is most definately unrivalled by men folk. Anyone who has watched petite teenage women balance jerry cans of water on their heads on long walks in the blistering sun whilst having a good old natter with their friends will know at least a little of the immense strength and grace of these women. It is pleasing to see females now having successful careers in parliament, in the police force and in just about every sector, in the face of gender inequality and the barriers which threaten to hinder such progress.
An insiders perspective on Woldia.
Looking beyond the opportunist crooks, the loopy guy who begs for bananas and the faranji fanatics in Woldia, i finally unveil a warmer and likeable side to this formerly unwelcoming transit town. Mr academic and his younger brother- also a student- become my companions for the evening. I quickly appreciate how little interest all the usual rabble have in me once I’m in the company of other Ethiopians.
We help one another to find suitable accommodation and once we’re all settled we go for dinner. We stroll past a row of real local food shacks fronted by women frying samosas on charcoal stoves by candlelight. In the background a huddle of customers crowd round a miniature table to scoff these oily snacks and to chew the fat. The blended sounds of high pitched trumpets, relentless bass riffs and eerie vocals are caught on the breeze; a culmination of songs playing from radios and television sets all along this downtown strip. Even clothes shops are open well in to the night here in Woldia. I smile at the thought of stumbling half drunk out of a beer hole and in to an immaculate tiled men’s clothing outlet to buy a new suit or a pair of Nike running shoes at 9pm. The only place you could do this in the UK is in London on a Thursday (which is late night shopping day). A little way up from the cramped rows of cheapie cafs, shoe shine stalls and convenience stores, we stumble across the main plaza, where juice bars are still whizzing up fresh mango and avocado juices and refined young men and women are enjoying the breeze on roof top bars overlooking the crowds of people and traffic below. This spot could easily rival the centreville of many lesser known European towns in terms of it’s ambience and un-pretentiousness.
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| Women - a pillar of strength on the African continent |
The following day my two new companions and I queue outside the bus station gates at 5:30am waiting for some sleepy guard with the keys to open up and let the huge crowd of early morning commuters loose. Mr academic sorts me out with a bus to Addis, which is a small blessing as the bus touts and shear numbers of buses and people could have made for a very confusing situation.
Slow coach to Ababa.
Before long we part ways and I’m on the world’s most starty-stoppy bus ever to have traversed this mountainous 500km stretch of asphalt. It’s not long before the driver is picking up and dropping off personal friends and enjoying nice long pitstops in various towns en route; the first being Dessie which is Woldia’s neighbouring transit town. I don’t resent the regular breaks as this is an comfortable ride. The gent sitting next to me treats me to breakfast in a bustling cafe outside the bus station, and I get to hear about his furniture selling business in Maganagna in the capital.
A smart little business venture.
We’re back on the road and this time joined by a charismatic businesswoman selling roasted barley by the bucketful. She expertly balances a shallow basket of this moreish snack in one hand like a waitress carrying canapés, instructing the bus conductor to scoop barley in to plastic bags which he then distributes to passengers, whilst she receives in her free hand cash which is passed along the bus in Mexican wave style from passengers further back (the same efficient method is used in reverse to speedily deliver plastic bags to pukey passengers, which they make very vocal use of on particularly bumpy or undulating journeys). She even has a hand spare to pull up her trousers once in a while to conceal a builder’s bum. Before long she thanks her customers by declaring her love to all before hopping off the bus in surprisingly nimble fashion. She waits at the side of the road for a bus travelling in the opposite direction to repeat the process again. Could you imagine there being an equivalent system operating on national express coaches? You have to marvel at the comical brilliance and the simplicity of this business venture, which would surely only work in Ethiopia or perhaps India.
I’m back in Addis being met by Liyu’s wonderful brother who goes by the name of Chuchu. He works for Dashen bank on Piazza square in central Addis. We stop for tea and cake in a smart café just off the main square where his friend and colleague Yoseph meets us. Yoseph works at the Sheraton, possibly the most luxurious hotel in East Africa and owned by a Saudi-Ethiopian tycoon born in Woldia of all places. Perhaps he started off selling samosas on the street and went from rags to riches. Yoseph tells us of an Ethiopian business man who has taken up permanent residence at the hotel, which charges in excess of $200 for a room per night. Yep, this is Addis, and Ethiopia is back where I’d just travelled from.
Suluta and the Liyu household.
It feels very comforting to be back at Liyu’s place again with her brother, sister and her mother, who was away the first time I visited. What a fantastic time we have together looking through my photographs from the last three weeks and adding an aniseed flavoured spirit to sugary tea until we’re all quite tipsy. The next day I go on a run with Chuchu around the perimeter of the Ethiotelecom compound where many Ethiopian runners train for athletic events. I then head back to my bed again whilst the family leave for work in the city. I’m due to fly at 2am the following morning and so savour the opportunity to rest before continuing on my travels.
I awake to a huge lunch which Liyu’s mother has prepared with the help of their house maid. The second from last njera based meal I eat before departing for a land where maize meal is the national staple. Her mother’s sisters show up one by one and before long the house is a hive of social activity. I say my farewells and Liyu’s mother walks with me all the way to the main road to flag a minibus to town. She has the same mannerisms as Liyu, and the same voice, albeit rather huskier. Recognising my sense of adventure but realising all the inherent risks, she eyes me knowingly, and in a few words she says a lot. Wishing me all the good fortune a conscientious young traveller should need, whilst solemnly expressing her concern for my safety, she waves me off. I realise that this wise old soul, and many others I have met along the way, are the salt of the earth. After all my ambitions have been fulfilled or otherwise and the impatience of youth has warn off, I’ll look back on their wisdom and a lot will fall in to place.
I head to Piazza and to the guest house I originally stayed at upon arrival to Ethiopia, to borrow thier wifi. I step off the busy square in to this placid tree covered spot. It has a sense of being stuck in time; nothing has changed and even the clientele are the same. A perfect retreat for wearly backpackers looking to mix in European/American/Australian circles for a short time. The first person I meet is the same inspiring Australian traveller I met on day one, wearing the same khaki trousers and trooper boots and drinking macchiatos in quick succession. He has been constructing a water pump in a remote village on the Sudanese boarder and has also been engaged in various livelihoods projects in the village market. He talks about a fruit seller who has doubled her income through relocating her stall and investing in a few extra items. When congratulated by another traveller on his success, he dismisses the praise with wave of his hand. ‘She did all the hard work, I just gave her the resources she needed to get going. Amazing lady though’.
I meet Liyu for the last time at Oslo café and we share some sweet treats before saying our farewells. 'Any time you are in Ethiopia you have a family to stay with now’. I smile to myself as I stroll along Churchill avenue from Piazza. Riding on the positive sense of attainment and acceptance, I move on foot from Piazza across Addis to Meskel square during rush hour, taking in the many sites, sounds and smells of this city of extremes. I witness the sheer grandeur of the African Union and UN compounds, the carbon copied shopping centres where tinted windows and gucci sunglass catch the golden evening rays, and overhead the maze of concrete and metal of Addis’s new electric metro network looms over its citizens, imposing and imminent and altogether very unethiopian. The citizens of Addis in all thier flavours- rich, poor, kind and unsavoury, are the components of the engine which keeps this metropolis in motion.
For a short time I escaped this concrete jungle to join my Italian friend Mario for some proper European grub in an Italian owned bar and recreation centre near Meskel square. He tells me of his adventures in the company of ganja smoking rastas in Shesheme and we knock back a few beers to kill time before my flight.
My Ethiopia experience is smooth right up to the last. The owner of the establishment sorts me out with some more birr in exchange for dollars to pay for a taxi to the airport and a waitress arranges a lift with her own driver. Before long I’m breezing along a highway lined with metal palms made up of colourful flashing lights; something of a scaled down version of a Las Vegas boulevard. Addis Bole International airport is as modern and as shiny as any you would expect to see in the west, although definitely inferior to Dubai, although its check-in and departure procedures are certainty far less streamlined than its facades.
And so this is it, I’m leaving. A stream of obscenely beautiful Ethiopian air hostesses click clack through the terminal in high heels, rapid and purposeful, with wheeled suitcases in tow. A few sleepy looking Kenyan passengers queue with me at the gate of Kenya airways flight to Nairobi. It’s back to Swahili land for a third time!
Stay tuned Kenya Edition coming soon!
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